Drawing
by revelationsinrevenge
Summary: What happened that caused Jeremy to stop drawing? [One-shot] - Pre-S1 - Complete


Drawing. The feel of the pencil across the paper, a trail of graphite long after his hand had lifted. Perhaps there was solace to be sought in those rough sketches, a way to evade what he did not wish to face, and a way to peel back all those layers of chaos, anger, and loneliness and seek what remained.

The sketchbook. An ordinary, black sketchbook sits in the drawer beside his bed. A rather inexpensive one, it's easily obtainable at any bookstore, and most importantly, easily overlooked.

Yet it is his most prized possession.

Just as how a musician would carefully tune his favourite instrument, or a writer would painstakingly rewriting a moment again and again until it meets his expectations, he devotes his time and attention to it. Never a chore but simply a way for him to express the thoughts that could not be expressed, the ideas that never came to fruition.

His path to a world of sketches was not an utterly outstanding one. It started out as a means to record, to place the frames of his life on paper, one drawing at a time. The one that ultimately drove his pencil to the thick, rough papers of his sketchbook though, was a dream.

The dream always begins the same way. The sound of leaves crunching beneath his feet, the faint tendrils of chill beginning to creep down his back, and an eerie, still silence. Such pure, unadulterated silence, it pushes all of one's senses to alertness.

He's always alone.

The first few times, there's the flickering sense of fear, but as the surroundings come into clearer light it is replaced by the familiarity that comes with recognition. A forest - the very same where he camped with his dad when he was twelve, the memory never failing to bring forth a small lift at the corners of his mouth. His hesitant steps signaled his exploration into this world, though it did not take long for them to get bolder as his feet guided him along trails he thought he had long forgotten, his hands gently grazing the barks of the trees as he went. Eventually he adapted to the silence, allowed it to envelope him, and his mind shifted to accept this world as it did to him. And it was the vividness, the almost mystical energy of the place that made him want to record it, and since there were always no cameras present (not that he ever stopped trying), he went out to purchase the sketchbook and picked up a pencil.

The first time someone else appears, it was a week after his parents' death, and he found himself by the water edge, staring silently at the horizon.

He felt cold.

The empty, hollow feeling swelled around him, filling parts of him he didn't even know existed, finding new places of which to inflict its pain. It never failed to remind him that he may never again feel his mother's hand running through his hair, her soft voice chiding him about its length again and his father's loud yells as he watched football on Saturday nights.

"Jeremy."

He spun around, his eyes landed on the lone figure standing beside him. Her feet were bare, and she was dressed in her favourite nightgown, one that he was familiar with because of how many times she had tucked him into bed while wearing it. He thought the ground was shaking, but eventually realized he was trembling, his fingers curling and uncurling as he tried to come to terms with what he was seeing before him.

"Mom," the small voice replied. Gone was the 16-year-old boy, and in his place stood the frightened one several years younger. His heart ached and throbbed, his entire being felt like it was fraying at the edges. Moving quickly, he raced towards her and wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly. She even smelled the same, the familiar scent of vanilla perfume that she always used, and it was only after she was gone that he realized how much he would miss it. One of her hands reached up to run through his hair, something she often did when she wanted to soothe him.

"It's okay honey, it's okay."

He shut his eyes and buried his face in her neck. It wasn't okay. Nothing was okay. She was gone. Dad too. When was it ever okay?

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he choked out, his tears leaking out, leaving stains on her nightgown. The last time he saw them, he was being a dick. Acting up, because Elena managed to get out of family night to go some party and he couldn't. And his last words to them were "Yeah, whatever" when they said they were going to pick Elena up.

_Yeah, whatever._

"How am I supposed to do this? How am I supposed to go on? Mom, I don't know," he pleaded. "I'm not ready, I lied, okay? I need you, I need dad, I can't do this by myself."

She pulled back, her gentle hands framing his face. "Sweetheart, you won't be alone. You have Elena." His raw, red-rimmed eyes met hers, and she smiled sadly. "I'll be here, I'll always be here. Every time you miss me just remember that I'm watching over you, even if you can't see me." Reaching up, she tucked his long fringe behind his ear.

"You need a haircut," she commented idly.

"Can you stay?" he asked abruptly. Even though it seemed a ridiculous and almost impossible request, he needed to know if there was anything, anything he could do for her to stay. She paused in her movements, and her brown eyes, the ones she passed on to him, met his again.

"I can't. I wish I could, but I can't," her voice was softer now, and her figure seemed to be blurring around the edges.

"No, mum. No," he begged, his hands trying to hold on to hers, even when he could feel it slipping away from his. "Don't. Please don't."

He felt it rather than saw it, the gentle press of her lips against his forehead, her hand trailing over his cheek.

"I will always love you Jeremy." The words were so faint he could barely hear it.

Then it was just him and the sound of the lake.

_I love you too._

The dream had become a echoing reminder of what he had lost, and he gave up drawing for awhile, letting the sketchbook lie, untouched, at the back of his closet, a thin layer of dust gathering over it in the coming weeks.

Perhaps he might touch it again, but for now, the simple pleasure of the dream, the delight in altering it had faded. And reality had seeped in.

"_To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die._" - Thomas Campell


End file.
